“I heart you.” She says,
as he carves into the branch with his dull-bladed pocket knife.

His was the kind of knife a Boy Scout would have.

Only he wasn’t a Boy Scout.

The blade peeled away the bark in small flakes, eroding the trust and innocence of the protective layers.

She remembers,

”I heart you.” She whispers to herself.

Joy in her heart that the tree is thriving even though it is permanently scarred.